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batsutousaiTitle: Abandoned: The Re-Write
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: M/R
Main Pairing: Harry/Tom, Harry/Voldemort
Side Pairings: Ginny/Theodore Nott, Seamus/Blaise Zabini, past-Ron/Hermione, Hermione/Luna, others
Warnings: SLASH, mentions of child abuse/rape/torture, language, character death, minor Dumbledore bashing, Grey-to-Dark!Harry
Summary: A complete re-write of Abandon: Before the start of his seventh year, Harry Potter is abandoned in London by his muggle family and finds himself befriending Lord Voldemort.
A/N: As a bit of a reminder, what Tom is called depends on the form he's in. When he's all snaky and stuff, he's Voldemort; when he looks human and has black hair – or in some other, unnamed form – he's Tom; and when he's as is described later in this chapter, he's Marcus. (The last is something I didn't do in the original Abandon and I sort of wish I had.)
Chapter Seven: Defences
-0-
'Harry,
'I wanted to thank you, again, for allowing me to attend your birthday celebration. It was nice to be able to meet with Seamus' friends and not fear I might be cursed for the choices of my late father or Housemates.
'I took your suggestion under consideration, but I'm not sure there's many I can talk to. Seamus and I talk from time to time about what happened, but the only time I've ever mentioned I knew one of the Death Eaters, he changed the subject. He won't be the only one, and those who might understand, will only see it as a weakness that I need someone else to discuss things with.
'In light of that, if you are amenable to it, I will continue owling you. I'm not sure what all you might have planned and I don't want to get in the way of anything.
'Thank you again,
'Blaise Zabini'
'Blaise,
'I'm glad that your first meeting with all of us went so well. Truly. Though, you might want to keep an eye on Ron in future: While he behaved himself during the party, I can't promise that he'll be able to see past your House so much after we've returned to school, but everyone else you met should continue to at least be polite to you.
'Far too many of the people that gather against the Dark Lord will turn their noses up at someone who claims a friendship with a Death Eater. At least, that's what I've come to see during my time in the wizarding world. I will admit that I've rarely met a Death Eater that I could stand, but I think I can understand that we sometimes have friends and family who choose a course very different from where we'll see ourselves ending up. (Or, perhaps, where we might one day end up, but would rather never say.)
'I can promise to try and be accepting of anything you wish to tell me, and I can definitely promise that whatever you write will be held in confidence, assuming that might have been a concern? I have little else to do this summer than answer owls, so my schedule should never be a problem.
'Sincerely,
'Harry'
Harry whistled to himself as he made his way to the meeting place Mad-Eye had specified in his owl. It had been just over a week since Harry's birthday and he had finished the books he'd been given by the ex-auror last night. The house Mad-Eye had given him directions to was a bit of a walk from the hostel, but not quite far enough that Harry felt he needed to apparate. Especially considering that he'd need to dissuade Tom from following him.
"The grocery is that way," Tom said, falling into step with Harry.
Harry nodded and shrugged. "Not going to the grocery."
Tom looked curious. "The pub?"
"Nope."
"Diagon's also in the other direction."
"Ah. So it is."
When Harry didn't turn around, Tom frowned a bit. "So... Where are you going then?"
"Meet an auror friend of mine."
"You have an auror friend?"
Harry raised an eyebrow at the Dark Lord. "I have a few."
Tom looked a bit disconcerted at that admission and stopped walking, forcing Harry to turn around and stop himself. "Which auror friend might this be? And why are you meeting with them?"
"Alastor Moody," Harry admitted easily, having already known that he'd have to give away some truth to the Dark Lord or be followed to the meeting place. "And he's training me in magic."
Something in the Dark Lord's expression went cold and, through their bond, Harry felt the echo of self-disgust. "I see. Well, you go and have your meeting, then," Tom said ever so quietly, then he turned away.
Harry felt torn between hurrying after the Dark Lord to find out what was wrong and being glad that he hadn't suffered through more of a fight in getting Tom to leave. In the end, Harry forced himself to turn back towards his destination and start walking again.
Mad-Eye greeted him in his usual rough manner, complained about Harry having taken his time in reading those books, then set about cursing the teen within an inch of his life.
Three hours later, Harry was bruised and tired, but generally happy with the day. He agreed to come by again the next morning, then turned himself towards the hostel, considering calling the Knight Bus just to make his life easier. He ended up deciding it would be a good idea when his legs let him know how little they wanted to keep walking.
Harry was so busy trying to spot a safe place to call the bus from in the late lunch-rush traffic, that he didn't notice the overly-large man storming over to him until Vernon's fist was already in his stomach.
He fell back onto the concrete and stared up at his uncle in shock. "What?" he choked out.
Vernon was huffing a bit, purple in rage. "Freaks must be taught lessons," he spat.
Harry looked around hopefully as he struggled to his feet, but they were on a mostly empty side-street. There were too many people around to chance using magic, but no one who looked like they might consider helping him. Harry turned back to his uncle, silently cursing his luck. "Okay. Don't come anywhere near your wife and son again. I got it."
"You will treat me with respect, boy," Vernon spat, and then he was coming at Harry again, a mad light in his eyes that sent a thrill of fear down Harry's spine even as the teen ducked to the side. But Harry's body was too beat up from his meeting with Moody, and Vernon had always been shockingly fast for a man of his girth when angry. He managed to swipe Harry just enough to throw him off balance, then turned and punched Harry in the face.
Harry stumbled back and would have fallen had arms not wrapped around his chest and pulled him back into a secure embrace. A familiar wand reached out past Harry and the voice behind him intoned, "Avada Kedavra."
Harry let out a gasp that was somewhere between relief and surprise as Vernon fell to the ground, face twisted in a parody of fear and hatred. And then the arm with the wand was wrapping around him and helping to support his weight. "Harry," the voice whispered, "are you okay?"
Harry smiled as he felt himself slipping away into pain-free darkness and managed, "Tom..."
Tom had been disgusted at himself. There he'd been, thinking up ways he could seduce Harry over to the Dark, and the boy was getting lessons from Alastor Moody. He'd been a fool if he thought Harry could ever consider an alliance between them.
He'd gone back to his base and cursed his servants, furious, but had eventually calmed down enough to sit back and think.
Just because the boy is getting training from an auror doesn't mean he would never join me. This only means he's learning as much as he can from the sources at his disposal. Very Slytherin of him.
Tom ended up deciding he could do with a nice soup and sandwich, so apparated to Lyon. He wasn't quite out of the alleyway yet when he felt an echo of worry and then a sudden burst of fear. He'd barely spared the thought required to trace Harry's location before he was apparating back to London. He got there in time to see Harry getting punched in the face by an obese man and he hurried forward to catch Harry before the exhausted teen fell.
He turned dark eyes on the man who had hurt Harry and saw dawning fear in the purple face as he raised his wand. "Avada Kedavra," he whispered, then turned his attention to the teen in his arms. "Harry, are you okay?"
A relieved smile touched Harry's lips and he whispered the Dark Lord's name as his eyes slid closed.
Tom swore he felt his heart stop for a moment. Then he noticed that Harry's chest was still moving with breath and felt himself relax just enough to consider his surroundings.
They were in a quiet side-street, but there were enough people who were even now gawking and Tom snarled at them, twisting Harry in his arms so the teen rested more easily against him, then he sent out a blanket obliviate before apparating himself and his burden to the first safe place that came to mind.
There, he laid Harry down on the thin hostel bed before moving over to where he knew the teen kept his potions stores. One healing potion later, and the Dark Lord called his chair over so he could sit next to Harry's bed and watch over him.
The relief he felt while watching Harry's chest rise and fall was as foreign as his fear when the teen fell unconscious and his need to rush to Harry's aid. What if the auror had been there? he wondered and shuddered a bit. He'd still looked human enough when Moody was fresh in the aurors that he might have recognised him, even in this form. It had been stupid and careless.
But Harry... Tom shook his head. Yes, Harry. That fear that had shot down their link...that hadn't been the fear of a curse being cast wrong while an auror watched over, but the fear of being faced with an opponent one couldn't hope to defend against.
Tom swallowed and shook his head. It wasn't the first time he'd needed to apparate to Harry and check on the teen, and it was starting to scare him. Sure, he'd always been obsessed with the boy – his Death Eaters complained about it often enough where they thought he wouldn't overhear – but this wasn't just obsession. It was...
Worry, concern, fear. Attachment.
Tom hissed and jerked out of his seat to stalk over to the window, needing to get away from the person who was making him feel so much turmoil. He wasn't attached to anyone. He didn't do attachment.
Attachment is dangerous. Attachment is a weakness. I cannot afford weakness. Not with Albus Dumbledore as my foe.
On the bed, Harry blinked his eyes open, feeling only the echoes of soreness. It took him a few minutes to remember the altercation with Vernon, but once he had he sat up, looking around for the Dark Lord.
Tom looked around at the sound of movement and the two stared at each other for a long moment, uncertainty echoing back and forth across the bond.
Finally, Harry enquired, "Did you have to kill him?"
Tom's lips curled with a sneer. "He attacked you."
Harry shrugged. "He's done it before," he admitted and was startled at the fury that echoed across the bond. "He's my uncle!" he called, watching the Dark Lord with some concern.
"That doesn't give him the right to attack you!" Tom hissed, stalking towards the end of the bed.
"You didn't have to kill him!"
"I could have put him under the Cruciatus instead," Tom snapped. "Perhaps I should have."
"Yeah, great. You could have just ignored him. Or, oh, I dunno, hit him with a stupefy."
"And what about the next time?" Tom hissed. "At least if he's dead, you're sa–" He stopped, realising what he was saying.
Harry huffed. "What are you, my knight in shining armour? I don't need anyone's help in defending myself–"
"Oh, really? Then that fat uncle of yours wasn't about to beat you unconscious?"
Harry looked away, because he knew that, without Tom's intervention, he'd be flat on his back in the middle of the street.
Tom snorted and sent his chair back behind the illusion with a jerk of his wand. "I have better things to do than listen to you mope about my killing someone who deserved it. Just don't go collecting a picture of him," he spat, looking over at Harry's collection of photographs.
Harry wrinkled his nose at the thought of having to see Vernon's fat face every day. As Tom moved to apparate, though, he called out, "Thanks!"
Tom paused and glanced back at the teen in the bed, disconcerted by the foreign emotion that blossomed at the word. He swallowed and apparated away.
Harry rested back in his bed and closed his eyes. Tom had saved him. He'd needed help, and Tom had come. Even if the Dark Lord could never return his feelings, even if the man would kill him after the summer was over, this moment was enough.
And Harry thought, Right now, I could produce the best patronus. Mum, Dad, Sirius... I'm sorry...
Tom sat down with his usual lunch with an irritated look and started tearing into his sandwich. When a woman two tables over stared at him, he snarled at her, making her gasp and look away.
"You'll be scaring away all my customers like that," Fletch commented in French as he sat at Tom's table, ignoring the glare the Dark Lord sent for the intrusion. "You're not usually so upset."
"Who said I was upset?" Tom spat back.
Fletch shrugged. "No one. How's Harry?"
Tom stiffened. "Why would you ask about him?"
"Ah. So this is about him." Fletch smiled as Tom looked almost murderous. "I always ask after him when he's not with you, Tom. What's happened?"
"Nothing's happened."
"I'm no Legilimens, but I do know when you're lying to me," Fletch replied, looking almost amused by the other man's fury.
"Fletch, I am going to curse you so–"
"Curse, curse, pain, pain... Death," Fletch shrugged. "We've been through this before, Tom. Just tell me what has you so upset."
Tom huffed and scowled a bit. It was times like this that he considered telling the Frenchman exactly who he served soup and a sandwich to every day, but Fletch's insight had proven far too valuable over the past few years, especially when one had been out of touch with the muggle world for fourteen years. And, of course, if anyone could figure out and explain what was wrong with him, it would be Fletch.
"There's something wrong with me," Tom finally said, focussing on his soup. "I keep... needing to protect Harry, but I shouldn't. He's not my concern."
"You've made him your concern," Fletch commented drily and received a glare in return. "So you worry about him. Normal people worry about their friends all the time."
"I am not 'normal people'," the Dark Lord spat and Fletch smiled, silently agreeing. "And we're not friends."
"Tom, you two have been coming here for almost two months; he buys you both lunch and you sit down and argue about the latest fashions. You're friends."
Tom stabbed his soup with his spoon. "We're not," he insisted. "We're enemies."
Fletch sighed and shook his head. "You're rather cordial for enemies."
"We called a truce for the summer."
"Of course. So, for one summer, you've agreed to pop across the channel and sit about at my bistro, mocking the shoppers who pass by. What'll you do, then, when he goes back to school in a couple weeks? Blast the train to bits?"
Tom had a terrible moment where he could see himself ordering something like that and he shook it away. "And kill the children who've got it right? Not bloody likely."
Fletch considered the Englishman in silence for a long moment.
Tom finally twitched and demanded, "What are you staring at?"
Fletch smiled. "Alright, then. Say you're facing each other on the battlefield and the summer's over. He's dropped his wand. What'll you do?"
"What is this, some sort of 'what if' game?" Tom snapped to try and cover the way his stomach had jumped to his throat. The thought that he might have an unhindered chance to kill Harry had once made him dance with glee, so why did the thought now make him want to be sick?
"You could say that," Fletch agreed. "So then, what would you do? He's defenceless."
Tom opened his mouth to snap out his usual response of 'Kill him,' but what came out instead was, "I don't...know..."
Fletch nodded at Tom's surprised look. "I don't think you're enemies any more, Tom."
"We can't not be enemies!" Tom snapped. "I have to kill him!"
"You might have to, but you won't be able to," Fletch replied calmly.
Tom turned his attention to his sandwich and started pulling it apart angrily.
"You've got two choices, so far as I can see: You can ask him to extend your truce, or you can just face him after your truce is over and hope things work out for the best."
"He'd never extend the truce," Tom said with certainty.
Fletch raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the Dark Lord, then shrugged. "So force him to."
"Force him to?" Tom gave the bistro owner a suspicious look. "Like, what? Blackmail him into not attacking me on sight? Promise not to kill his little friends if he steps back? Not bloody likely."
Fletch sighed and shook his head. "You could see to it that you only meet again in neutral territory."
"There is no 'neutral territory' in our war."
The bell on the worktop inside the bistro dinged, signalling a waiting customer and Fletch got to his feet. "You're clever, Tom. You'll figure something out." Then he turned and returned to his duties.
Tom turned back to his decimated lunch and sighed. "Fantastic," he told the splashed soup.
Harry was in the loo when he heard the sound of apparation in the main room. "Be out in a bit, Tom!" he called, knowing that only one person ever apparated into his room; everyone else used the front door.
When Harry got out, he found the Dark Lord snooping through his mail and rolled his eyes. "Have you no concept of personal privacy?" he wondered.
"I've a back door into your mind," Tom replied a bit distractedly, "I've little care for privacy, especially when it concerns you." He turned, holding up a letter. "You're trading letters with Blaise Zabini?"
"He wanted someone to talk to," Harry said, reaching out a hand for his mail, which Tom held away. "Real mature, Tom."
"Still reading it. You can have the rest of them, though." The Dark Lord handed over the stack of about six other letters. "You've quite a number of quill-pals."
"What can I say, I'm just popular like that. And give me Blaise's letter. I promised I wouldn't spread about anything he wrote me."
"You're not spreading it about, I'm snooping," Tom retorted, continuing to hold the letter just out of Harry's reach. When Harry started getting taller, Tom snorted. "Might I remind you that I'm also a metamorphmagus, and I've been practising longer."
Harry huffed and relaxed back a bit. "Sort of expected the ability to be easier," he commented, turning to dump his letters on the bed.
"Maybe if you were born with it," Tom replied, turning his attention back to the letter. "Latent gifts tend to be a sort of learn-as-you-go thing."
"You'd think all magical gifts would be like that," Harry complained, silently considering the best spell to get Blaise's letter from the Dark Lord.
"They might be, but children have so little control over their magic as it is that it's a bit hard to tell."
"Good point. Accio."
Tom tightened his grip on the letter and there was a brief struggle before the parchment slipped away and into Harry's hands. The teen smiled a bit smugly and added the letter to his pile, then sat on it. "You'll crinkle them all," Tom commented.
Harry shrugged. "I'm the only one who'll know."
Tom snorted and sat in his chair. "Have you received your Hogwarts letter yet?"
Harry grimaced and shook his head. "No, actually. Why do you ask?"
"Mr Zabini mentioned it."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I figure Dumbledore just hasn't found a Defence professor yet. He had some trouble last year, too, especially since you kept killing off applicants."
Tom looked quite proud of himself.
Harry rolled his eyes again. "He'll have to send the letters out soon, anyway, or no one'll be able to get their books in time. I'm sure Flourish and Blott's will let everyone owl-order the Defence books again, if it comes to it, but it was rather troublesome."
"But entertaining," Tom replied, having heard about the mass of owls that descended on the school the second day of term with books. The owl post office had been completely empty, since the bookshop had used all their owls, as well as all the personal owls for most of the other shops on the alley.
Harry snorted. "Yeah, okay, it was a bit. Now, what brings you popping in?"
Tom blinked. "Oh, right. Lunch?"
Harry grinned. "Yeah, alright. I'll be down in a mo'."
"Don't trust me in the room without you sitting on those letters?"
"Not a bit."
Tom chuckled and stood. "I'll meet you outside, then," he agreed, then popped away.
Harry waited a bit over a minute before he got up and shoved the letters in his trunk to read later. Then, grabbing his cap and sunglasses, he hurried out of his room and down the stairs, calling a greeting to anyone he saw on the way.
Tom took a deep breath and focussed hard on the face he wanted to wear. After a moment, he looked into a mirror hanging on the wall in front of him and considered the man looking back at him. The new face was a bit chubbier than he was used to and the hair was a light brown with a few strands of grey. The eyes were a pale golden-brown and angled differently from his normal eyes.
The rest of him had changed as well, making him a bit shorter and a little bit rounder at the middle, but he hadn't changed it too much, since he didn't want anyone thinking the way he held himself was out of place with the body he'd chosen.
He cleared his throat and whispered, "I am Marcus Brutús. It's a pleasure to meet you." He frowned a bit, then tried again with a faint Italian accent. "I am Marcus Brutús. It's a pleasure to meet you." He spent a moment repeating the sentence with variations on the two accents, never quite letting himself lose his natural British accent in case he slipped, but not wanting his voice to be too familiar. He was, after all, about to go directly into enemy territory and face people who had known him before most of his speech took on a faint undertone of hissing.
Ten minutes later, he was pleased with his new voice. He looked down at his robes, next, which were the fine, black and green robes that Lord Voldemort favoured. When he went out into the muggle world, he usually wore muggle attire, but he didn't think that would be acceptable.
Then an image came to him of a family in Diagon Alley who were all wearing muggle clothing under open robes. The robes were of a newer style that one of the smaller shops next to the mouth of Knockturn sold, which had no sleeves and were meant to be worn over something, like another robe or muggle clothing. It was wizarding enough to be worn by a former Slytherin, but muggle enough that a Death Eater wouldn't be caught dead in it.
"Perfect."
He moved over to his wardrobe and pulled out an older robe, a clean button-down shirt, and some slacks and changed. The robe's sleeves were taken off and the fabric was transfigured to match the style of the robes from that shop. He knew he'd need to go by the shop later and order a full set of the outer robes, as well as some under robes, but he could do that later. For now, he had a meeting to go to.
Marcus apparated to the entrance of Hogwarts, where he was met by a sharp-eyed woman who he remembered from both school and the battlefield.
"You'll be Marcus Brutús, I presume?" she said in a no-nonsense sort of tone.
"I am," Marcus agreed. "You must be Minerva McGonagall; I was told you'd be waiting for me at the gate."
McGonagall pursed her lips and nodded. "Indeed. If you'll please come inside?" She waved him forward.
Marcus stepped through the gate and felt the wards of the school scanning him, looking for any wish to cause the students or staff harm or a sign of a Dark Mark or other Dark magic signature. Marcus was easily able to bury his need to kill Dumbledore, and he hadn't used any Dark magic in the past two days to keep the wards from sensing anything.
When the wards let him through, McGonagall relaxed and motioned that he should follow her, then led the way to where a thestral-drawn carriage waited.
The ride up to the castle was silent, as was the walk to the Headmaster's office. McGonagall gave the password – candy corn; Dumbledore was evidently on an American sweets kick – then, after insuring he could make his way out on his own, left him to it.
Marcus stepped onto the magical staircase and closed his eyes on the way up, settling his nerves. He couldn't afford to lose his calm in the presence of the man he was about to meet. Anything that could give him away would; Dumbledore was brilliant and observant, and he'd spent a long time watching and learning first Tom Riddle, and then Lord Voldemort. And if he was caught in this building, he wasn't likely to get back out of it in one piece.
He knocked politely on the door to the office and stepped in when Dumbledore called, "Please come in, Mr Brutús."
Marcus smiled and walked over to the older wizard, one hand extended. "Headmaster Dumbledore, thank you so much for this opportunity to meet with you," he said.
Dumbledore rose and shook his hand, then motioned him towards the comfortable chair on the opposite side of the desk. "Please, have a seat. Would you like any tea?"
"No, thank you," Marcus replied, taking the chair.
Dumbledore smiled and poured himself a cup from the pot on his desk, then sat back in his chair, looking down at the parchment on his desk. "It says here you were a Slytherin and graduated in 1945?" He glanced up. "I admit that you are not familiar to me."
Marcus smiled a little bitterly. "I was blood-adopted into the Brutús clan shortly after I graduated, when my mother married their only son. My step-grandparents needed an heir and my mother was too old to give birth again. You would know me, sir, as Marcus Dustof."
In reality, Marcus Dustof had been a useless little boy whose mother had, in fact, married into the Brutús clan of Milan, but the boy hadn't been blood adopted, having been killed during a boating accident the day after the marriage. It hadn't taken much for Lord Voldemort to get the Brutús clan to claim that the boy hadn't died, especially since only his step-father was still alive, and the man was a coward.
Dumbledore's eyes, though, had widened in recognition. "Ah, yes, Mr Dustof. I recall that you weren't all that good at Defence while you were a student here, however. What made you want to apply for this position?"
Marcus managed a faint flush and looked away. "My step-grandparents wouldn't stand for what they called my 'deficient learning', so I was given many tutors. I have my test scores from when I took the Italian MAGO – which are on the same level as the British NEWT – as well as a translation requested from the exam office." He pulled the mentioned parchments out of the inner pocket of his robe and handed them over.
Dumbledore looked over the scores and smiled a bit. Everything was at least an Oltre Ogni Previsione, or Exceeds Expectations, with Transfiguration, Ancient Runes, and Defence all being Eccezionale, or Outstanding. (Marcus had taken care to show some deficit, so as to keep anyone from connecting him to the too-brilliant Tom Riddle.) He handed the parchments back over. "That is acceptable," he allowed as Marcus put the papers away. "Now, I should warn you that there is said to be a curse on the position that you are applying for, which only allows us to keep a professor for one year. Previous professors have ended their term by being carried out of the front doors only with medical assistance."
Marcus nodded. "I only intend to spend a year," he said with a shrug. "I am aware of the curse and I don't intend to tempt it. Perhaps, by declaring my intent to only stay for a year, the curse will look me over, yes?"
"It's possible," Dumbledore agreed, though he sounded a bit dubious. "If you're willing to take the risk, the job is yours."
Marcus smiled widely. "Truly? That's wonderful!"
Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes, well... I don't suppose you have a list of the books you want the students to have for your class? I do need to send the letters out this afternoon, but I can send out an addendum once you've decided, if..." Dumbledore trailed off as Marcus pulled out the paper he'd written his book choices on and held it out. The older wizard took a moment to look it over, then nodded and set it to the side. "Excellent. Everything should be in order, then. If you could arrive on the twenty-ninth, you can spend the weekend getting to know the rest of the staff and setting up your rooms and office."
"That would be very welcome, sir," Marcus agreed.
Dumbledore rose and reached across the desk to shake Marcus' hand. "It was good seeing you again, Marcus. I hope this year goes as well as this meeting."
"You and me both, sir," Marcus replied, then left the office, feeling accomplished. I did it! I finally have the job I've always wanted. Marcus smiled around at the school's stone walls. I can mould the students of the future the way I see fit, if only for a year, and I can keep an eye on Harry while I do it. And the school is neutral grounds, so our truce can continue. Finally, things are looking up.
Harry looked up in surprise as someone sat down in the seat next to him. It wasn't often that anyone tried sitting at this particular table, since it was well known that he and Tom had claimed it during lunchtime. But it was Tom who had joined him, and Harry cocked an eyebrow at him. "Where've you been?"
"Getting a job," Tom said, clearly proud of himself.
"You have a job," Harry pointed out drily.
"A socially acceptable job," Tom replied, then smiled as Fletch sat down his usual order in front of him. "Thank you, Fletch."
"Oh, he'z in a good mood today," Fletch commented, winking at Harry, who laughed. "Did you get laid?" the Frenchman wondered.
Tom sputtered a bit, then turned a glare on Fletch. "Piss off."
Fletch chuckled and left them to it.
Tom scowled over at where Harry was still chuckling. "What's so funny, Potter?"
Harry snorted and covered his mouth to hide his smile. "Sorry. So, what job did you get, then? Minister for Magic?"
"Paperwork," Tom replied, disgusted.
Harry snickered and shook his head. "But you could rule the world that way."
"I could rule the paperwork that way," Tom said drily and shook his head.
"Yeah, alright, paperwork is your eternal nemesis. Thanks for the heads up." Tom sneered and Harry grinned at him. "What's the job?"
"Defence Against the Dark Arts professor," Tom said with a hint of pride in his voice.
Harry blinked at him, surprised, then asked, "You're my new Defence professor?"
"What, you didn't think you could escape me by going off to Hogwarts, did you?" Tom asked. "I still have to find out how you learnt that spell."
Harry felt a little upset for a moment that Tom had only taken the position to continue pestering him about his knowledge of a Dark spell, but he forced a smile and said, "Congratulations."
Tom nodded. "Dumbledore said he'll be sending the letters out today," he commented, silently wondering why Harry was upset. Did he not want Tom at Hogwarts? Well, of course he doesn't want me at Hogwarts! It's his school and his friends will be there!
"That's good," Harry said, poking at his soup. "How're you going to fool the Headmaster, though? You can't very well go as yourself."
"I changed my form," Tom said, shrugging. "There was a boy in my year, a Marcus Dustof, who died shortly after we graduated, and the only person who survived him was his step-father, who was willing enough to let me play his step-son for a year."
Harry blinked and nodded. "Okay. What're you going to do about your wand, then?" He nodded to the yew wand he could see poking out of the sheath on the Dark Lord's arm.
Tom glanced down at his wand and surprise, then horror, echoed through their link. "Bollocks."
Harry laughed and leant back in his chair. "You could go get another one. Don't some wizards have a back-up wand anyway?"
"Aurors and most Death Eaters," Tom agreed, rubbing at his face. "I never bothered, though, and Ollivander would recognise me if I went there."
"I'm sure there are other wand-makers in the world," Harry said drily. "One in France, for example."
Tom's eyes lit up. "Or Milan," he agreed, then stood. "Want to see Italy?"
Harry blinked, then grinned and stood himself. "Sure." He grabbed the sandwich off the Dark Lord's tray and shoved it into Tom's hands before letting the man lead him away from the shop. "Why Italy?"
"Marcus Brutús' family is from Milan, where there's a large magical presence," Tom explained, giving the sandwich a perplexed look. "It would make sense that any replacement wands he got would have been from there."
"I thought you said his name was Marcus Dustof."
"His was, mine is Marcus Brutús. His mother married into the Brutús clan shortly before his death."
"Wait, wasn't Marcus Brutús some Roman bloke who betrayed Julius Caesar?"
Tom smirked at him and held out a hand to apparate them. "Exactly."
Harry's laughter echoed in the alley even after they'd popped away.
-0-0-0-0-0-
A/N: I had some trouble with this chapter, especially in getting Tom to behave. I wanted to make him as IC as I could, but still get to really like and, eventually, love Harry. Hope that's working out a bit.
The Italian is pulled from the Italian translation of the books. The gods alone know if Jo's version of the Italian magical world would have exams on par with British NEWTs (given they don't even seem to have a school), and they, honestly, would probably call them something different from MAGO (Magie Avanzate Grado Ottimale) and have a different grading scale, but I was too lazy and don't have the Italian skills necessary to create something more likely to hold up under scrutiny, so I just used the translation. Apologies to anyone upset or annoyed by that. (Idk, just call it me pulling a Jo? >.>)
Cheers!
Bats ^.^x
Abandon the Prequel: Sixth Year
Abandon chapter 01
Reclaim chapter One
Abandoned Chapters:
One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six ||
Eleven || Twelve || Thirteen || Fourteen || Fifteen || Sixteen || Seventeen || Eighteen || Nineteen || Twenty
INCOMPLETE
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